


Kinetics

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-03
Updated: 2007-03-03
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: It's not like Sam doesn't know what he's doing. He does. He knows what it means when Dean turns off the radio and drives in silence for miles, and he knows what to do about it. He knows what it means when Dean buys a microbrew instead of a six-pack of whatever's on sale.





	Kinetics

**Author's Note:**

> This is for esorlehcar, who is very sick, and wanted "Sam fucking Dean really hard and Dean begging for it."

It's not like Sam doesn't know what he's doing. He does. He knows what it means when Dean turns off the radio and drives in silence for miles, and he knows what to do about it. He knows what it means when Dean buys a microbrew instead of a six-pack of whatever's on sale.

He knows what it means when Dean drinks too much at a bar and starts hitting on the girl with the biggest tits and the fewest clothes, and he knows what to do about that, too.

"Come on," Sam murmurs, closing his hand around Dean's elbow. "It's time to go."

Dean makes a face, but manages to tear his eyes away from the girl's cleavage. "Ain't that late yet, Sammy," he says.

"I know," Sam says. He steps up behind Dean and curls his other hand around Dean's hip. "I didn't say it was late. I said it's time to go."

"Oh," Dean says. "Huh. Well." He drains his beer and salutes the girl with the empty bottle. "Nice meetin' you, uh."

"Maddysen," the girl says, pouting.

"Right, yeah," Dean says. He puts the bottle on the bar. "Gotta go."

Dean's got his hand in Sam's back pocket as soon as they're out the door into the parking lot, but Sam shakes him off, pulls away.

"What—Sam, I thought..." Dean trails off, hands in his pockets, looking completely forlorn, and Sam almost relents right then and there—but he knows what Dean needs, and it's not this.

"Get in the car," Sam says. "And give me the keys. I'm driving."

"Fuckin' demanding bastard," Dean says, but he tosses over the keys.

Sam drives with his left hand on the wheel and his right hand on Dean's thigh, his thumb and forefinger bracketing Dean's knee. Dean's tense, humming under his breath, and Sam grins to hear it, knows what _that_ means, too. His cock's hot and throbbing inside his jeans, ready for what's next.

The motel room's cold—the air conditioner's been working overtime in their absence. "Take your clothes off," Sam says, "and get on the bed."

"It's fuckin' cold in here," Dean says, taking off his jacket.

"I know," Sam says. "All of it, Dean, not just the jacket." He turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the overhead light. The room looks smaller in the dim lighting, and cozy—like a place Sam might live, instead of just a place he's passing through.

Dean kicks off his boots and peels off his socks, shoves down his pants, strips off his t-shirt. He grins at Sam and curls a hand around the base of his cock, just holding himself, his eyes dark and teasing.

"On the bed," Sam says, sliding his belt through the loops on his jeans. Dean always does this—tries to challenge Sam, see how far he can push—and it means something, it all does; everything Dean _does_ means something, and Sam's made it his mission in life to catalogue it all, to codify and define every quirk of Dean's eyebrows, every smartass thing he says in an effort to get Sam to leave him.

Dean climbs onto the bed on his hands and knees, the mattress squealing from his weight. The line of his back is enough to make Sam's mouth go dry, and he shucks off his clothes, hands unsteady. As often as they do this, it's always new, and it terrifies Sam every time.

"Sam," Dean says, like a question.

"I know," Sam says. "Scoot up. You're gonna want to have something to hold onto."

"Promises," Dean says, and Sam slaps his ass sharply. Dean yelps.

"Backtalk," Sam says. "Scoot up."

Dean slides along the bedspread until he's got his hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed. "You happy now? Jesus."

"You'll thank me later," Sam says, and gets on the bed.

"Oh, I bet," Dean says.

"I'll smack you again," Sam says.

"No," Dean says. He arches his back, his ass lifting. "You're gonna fuck me."

"Oh yeah?" Sam says. "What makes you think that?" He spreads both hands over Dean's ass, squeezing, and bites down on a grin when Dean grunts.

"Saaaammy," Dean says, his laziest drawl.

"God, Dean," Sam says, sliding his thumbs down, spreading Dean open. "Tell me you want it."

"Yeah, okay, I want it," Dean says, "will you quit fuckin' around?"

"I thought that was the idea," Sam says, and leans forward, puts his mouth right _there_ , right where he knows Dean wants it to be.

Dean hisses through his teeth and twists his hips, demanding, but Sam pulls back, rubs a thumb over the shiny wetness he's left. "Dean," he says. "Tell me."

"Jesus, _fine_ , I want you to—" Dean breaks off and lets his head drop. He's breathing hard and quickly. "I want your—I want you to put your mouth on me, Sammy, okay, I want—"

"I know," Sam breathes, and leans in again. He doesn't tease this time—he kisses Dean like he would kiss his mouth, sloppy tongue and then pressing _in_ abruptly, while Dean moans and rocks his hips, his breaths coming out as ragged pants.

"Sammy, Sammy," Dean mutters, twisting. Sam moves one hand around to palm Dean's balls, and Dean does a funny back-and-forth movement, like he can't decide which touch he wants more, Sam's hand or Sam's mouth.

Sam pulls back. "You aren't telling me," he says. "Should I stop?"

" _No_ ," Dean says, too loud. "No, Sam, I want you to—" He shakes his head, like a nervous horse would. "Please—Sammy, please, okay, I can't—I need you to fuck me, Sam, _please_ —"

"Okay," Sam says, "okay, Dean, that's good. That's real good."

" _Please_ ," Dean says again.

"I will," Sam says, running one hand up Dean's back, feeling the hard ridge of muscle beside his spine. He grabs the lube off the bedside table and flips the cap open, squeezes it out onto his fingers.

Dean shivers, and makes the kind of noise he only makes when he can't help himself.

"It's okay," Sam says. He slides one finger into Dean, so careful, but Dean opens right up for him, shuddering, and Sam slides in another. He twists his fingers, searching, and Dean jerks hard, saying, "Please, Sam, please, _fuck me_ ," like it's a reflex.

"Oh, I'm gonna," Sam says, and he's surprised to hear his voice gone so ragged—he's been focusing on Dean, mostly, but suddenly he remembers how fucking hard he is and how much he wants to slide his cock into Dean's tight ass and fuck him until neither of them can see straight. There's nothing stopping him. He pulls his hand out of Dean's ass and wraps it around his own cock, slicking up. "Are you ready?" he asks, his other hand on Dean's hip.

"Yeah," Dean says, "yes, Sammy, come _on_ —"

Sam rubs the head of his cock against Dean's ass, teasing for just a moment, and then presses in—that first hard push, and then the head pops inside, and Sam's digs his fingers into Dean's hips so hard that he _knows_ there'll be bruises tomorrow—he'll mouth at them before he goes down on Dean in the shower, as repentance.

"Please," Dean says. "You need to—Sammy, you've gotta—"

"I will," Sam says, and presses all the way inside, tugging Dean's hips toward him. Dean's hot and clenching around him, and Sam knows they won't last long, neither one of them. He flexes his hips, drawing out and shoving back in, and Dean moans and moves with him, rocking into Sam's thrusts—and it's always like this, between the two of them, so incendiary that Sam feels like he's combusting, like he'll come away from it with third-degree burns.

"Do it harder," Dean says, pushing at the wall, bracing himself to shove back at Sam.

"Okay," Sam says, "okay, I'm gonna—" and he _twists_ in, slamming his hips forward, yanking Dean's hips along with him. His whole body's tingling, building with it. "Dean, touch yourself," he says, "I want you to touch your cock, now, okay—"

"Fuck," Dean says, and takes one hand off the wall, and Sam can see his shoulder flexes as he jerks himself; he can imagine it, Dean's red cock sliding through his fingers, and that's what it takes; he holds Dean still and comes inside him, grinding out his orgasm.

"God damn it," Dean bites out, his shoulder still working, and Sam's too dazed from it to do anything to help out—he just kneels there, holding Dean's hips, and twitches weakly when Dean comes, flexing around him.

"Oh my god," Sam says, flopping onto the mattress.

"You said it," Dean says. "My ass is never gonna be the same. I won't walk for a week."

"You'll be fine, you pussy, you always say that and you're _always_ fine the next day," Sam says. He pulls Dean toward him, slinging an arm over Dean's belly and burying his face against Dean's neck.

"Oh, shut up," Dean says, his fingers tracing strange patterns on Sam's sweaty back.

Sam kisses Dean's neck, his collarbone. "You happy now? Are you gonna stop trying to get herpes from Caymbrydge or whatever her name was?"

"I'd rather have herpes from you," Dean says, "you big stud," and all Sam can do is roll his eyes and shift over so he isn't in the wet spot anymore.


End file.
